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Henry only sighed. He knew when to press and when not to, and the older I got, the less he seemed to try.
I believe that’s why they call me incorrigible.
“So, what’s my punishment this time? No polo? Please, don’t take away my ponies. Or, let me guess, cut off the allowance I don’t use? Stop tuition at the next school I get kicked out of?” I chuckled at the ridiculousness. It was like tempting a bee with honey they had already made themselves.
Henry just shook his head as we stopped at the Rolls, where he opened up the boot for the porters to put my bags. “I’m afraid not. This time you’re staying here. For good.”
I snorted. Fat chance, that. “That is a real punishment. Honestly, Henry, why doesn’t he just disown me and get it over with? Throw me back to the South End. I don’t belong here, just like everyone keeps telling me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, boy.”
Henry gave the porters a tip, then waited until they were fully out of earshot to turn and speak again. “There’s been some records found. In Japan. Your mother’s…people…sent them.”
I frowned. I’d barely heard from my grandfather or my uncle in Okazaki since the funeral. My uncle apparently took it personally when I’d, you know, obeyed the law and gone with the man who now had legal custody. There was no way he would have voluntarily communicated with the family who had shamed his sister.
Henry was solemn, however. He never joked, and certainly not about something like this.
“What did they send?” I asked, hoping it might be good. Some really good salt, maybe. Or some packaged mochi. Once, they sent Mum a bottle of aged soy sauce, which she prized like the crown jewels.
But they were likely letters from Mum, I guessed. Or some old pictures of me when I was young. Maybe my birth certificate, which had been lost a while ago. Deep down, I’d always hoped I’d actually been more in Japan, not England, despite the fact that Mum insisted, again and again, I’d been delivered right there at Croydon Hospital.
I perked up. “Don’t tell me—I’m not Rupert Parker’s son after all. My dad’s in fact a samurai lord who’s been searching for me and his long-lost wife for the last nineteen years. He’s heard of my fighting prowess and wants to bring me home to learn the family trade. Have I got it?”
Even Henry couldn’t help rolling his eyes. I laughed. I might not have had the same coloring as my dad, but even I had to admit, there was no denying that I was half Parker.
“It is a marriage certificate,” he told me. “Between your father and Masumi Sato—your mother, of course. Dated the year before your birth at a Buddhist temple in Okazaki. Rather heathen, of course, but legitimate just the same. It seems that your parents were secretly married in your mother’s hometown just before she ended the relationship. She left Kendal for London just before their divorce went through. But not before you were conceived.”
He looked almost ill as he said it, but to his credit, Henry didn’t show the disgust most people had when they imagined the Duke of Kendal knocking up—or in this case, marrying—a local student who worked part time as his family’s cook. It was more like he was shocked.
I honestly thought I might puke as I reached for the top of the Rolls to steady myself. “I—who—what? They—you mean—I’m not a—”
“Bastard,” Henry finished, like the word physically hurt. “No, boy, it appears not. Which means you will be the next Duke of Kendal, not some distant cousin. And so, my lord, since you are so determined not to succeed at university, it has been decided that you will continue your education here. You will learn what it means to be a duke. And you’d better get used to it.”
SEVEN
Francesca
“Daddy! We’re home!”
Sofia flew into the apartment like a jet, even to the point of letting her arms fly out behind her like a tiny kite racing through the sky. Xavier always laughed when she did that, calling it her anime run. According to him, all kids in Japan flew around the playgrounds that way, imitating their favorite cartoon characters. Hilariously, it seemed to demonstrate her pedigree to him more than anything else—especially when he zoomed after her with the force of a B-52.
“Bean!” I called from the elevator. “Shoes off, babe.”
“Oh, right.”
Obediently, Sofia trotted back to the front door and toed off her sneakers—new ones that Xavier had bought her last week, which had unicorns on the sides. She tipped them onto the pile of other shoes that buried the sleek rack by the door. The rack itself was only good for propping up umbrellas and the occasional grocery bag. But that didn’t stop it from becoming the catch-all for coats, shoes, bags, and the other debris of a family coming and going.
It was a mess, but it was our mess.
After a month in London, Sofia had truly made herself at home in her father’s apartment, and it showed. Multiple parts of the penthouse had been completely refurnished—some because they simply could not withstand the wear and tear of a four-year-old (read: pink glitter paint spilled all over a white angora rug), and some simply because Xavier decided at one point that he wanted the place to feel more “homey.” The white and chrome furniture had largely disappeared within the first week, supplanted by worn antiques, overstuffed furniture, and more than a few pieces with a faintly East Asian feel to them. It was no less luxurious, even now, when the living room was scattered with the remains of a Lego set and the contents of a fake kitchen in the corner. Even the piano no one played had been replaced with an enormous indoor playset that essentially designated that part of the floor as Sofia’s private jungle gym.
The place all but belonged to her.
We’d also settled into something of a routine. Although Xavier frequently took an afternoon or two off each week to join us, Sofia and I were generally on our own during the days. We were left with Ben, Xavier’s driver, to explore London and the surrounding areas while Xavier worked at one of too many restaurants to count. On top of managing his properties in London, he and Jagger were retrofitting one of the original izakayas he’d started with his mother’s recipes, alongside taking a day trip to Paris here and there to plan another international opening. Sofia and I had tagged along there too, and those trips had been fun. She particularly loved Disneyland Paris, the Eiffel Tower, and pains au chocolat.
Playing tourists, though, had its downside. It was already August, and I was running out of things to do with my daughter each day. She only had so much patience for museums and shopping. We’d visited the Tower of London and Big Ben at least three times, had explored every nook and cranny of Buckingham Palace, enjoyed Hyde Park several times per week, and had ridden the London Eye to the point I was ready to jump off the top into the Thames for a reprieve. I was still dying to explore the British Library more, not to mention visit Cambridge and Oxford. But I hadn’t had the guts to ask for a day to myself when Xavier was working so hard. More than that, though, I was simply ready for a break from the city. London was a lot.
Sofia was feeling fatigued as well and getting more than a little homesick. She missed her friends. Her preschool teacher, Ms. Talia. And her family most of all. We FaceTimed each evening with at least one of her aunts, her uncle, or Nonna, but it wasn’t enough. We needed more to do. Or at least a deeper purpose for being here.
